


Gravity Wells

by FHC_Lynn



Series: Gravity [6]
Category: Transformers - All Media Types
Genre: Continuity What Continuity, Plug and Play Sexual Interfacing, Rape/Non-con Elements, Sticky Sexual Interfacing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-14
Updated: 2017-01-11
Packaged: 2018-04-26 07:21:55
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 10
Words: 6,418
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4995427
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FHC_Lynn/pseuds/FHC_Lynn
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Smaller pieces of the Gravity universe are going to be collected here.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Negotiations

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fits in after Heliopause. Written for the Dreamwidth [tf_rare_pairing community](http://tf-rare-pairing.dreamwidth.org/) for the prompt: Elita One/Shockwave - no better time
> 
> A time and place existed for all possibilities.

"I do not understand."

"You understand. We don't have time for you to play coy."

"Hm. Allow me to expand my reply. I do not understand your motivation."

"It's very simple. We don't want to die. You don't want to die. We are the last. How many have you entombed since our glorious leaders got themselves killed, Shockwave?" Elita leaned forward, tapping a light pink finger against his grey hand. Shockwave met the other's bright optics. No sign of disgust showed in that elegantly made face. "Would you like to know how many I have? And none of them had to fade out. _We_ don't have to fade out. Why do we still need to fight?"

"There are no more means for ships," Shockwave said quietly. Primus knew that he had tried. The material for building disintegrated all around them. He had nothing to burn for smelters to reforge the metal. He had no fuel to feed his mechs let alone fly this ship he could not build.

"Not a ship, bright spark. The very bridge they damaged in their flight. The one your broken war ship hit falling. That requires less material to rebuild, no? But more fuel to run, I know. Now here's a thing. I have enough fuel. Can you get the bridge running?"

Shockwave stared at the mech, aware that his optical light wavered. "We are not built to survive space...?"

"Then it's a game of how close to the surface you can bring it. And how close you can land us on the other end." Elita smiled, warm and bright.

"Why would I bring you? Why would I not simply take this imaginary fuel?"

"It's not imaginary, Shockwave. And you might not want to bring us. I've been told I'm a sentimental fool to trust you. But don't you think we've destroyed enough? For all we know here, _none_ of our ships made it. That makes us quite possibly the last Cybertronians. I'll _give_ you the damned fuel. We'll work with you. We'll build with you, Shockwave. I want to live. Do you?"

Shockwave looked at the narrow hand on his own. Elita held it tightly. Shockwave felt that weighted gaze studying him intensely. He should not have let the remaining oppositional leader inside his tower.

But they starved here. Just last week he had lost another. Shockwave could not wait for Megatron to save him any longer.

"If we do this, Elita, we must act quickly."

"There's no time like the present, is there?"


	2. Well's Reward

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Apparently Shockwave _does_ have a sense of humor.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: eternal  
> Notes: Inspired by the October Collection going on now. Also explains for those that asked when Shockwave accused Elita of being the minion of an absentee god.

Part of the wall ahead fell outward as he hurried along with Elita’s team right behind him. Another chunk followed, opening up a view of the deteriorated skyline of Tarn. The third finally got his attention as Elita caught up. Elita’s knowledge of profanity still impressed him.

“Shockwave, you _stupid_ fragging rusted up circuit board!” Small hands yanked him back and around before he truly registered the floor crumbling beneath them. Larger hands snatched him from Elita, and he found his optic smothered in Chromia’s chest plating as the floor creaked and dipped alarmingly. Just past the edge of Chromia’s collar fairing, Shockwave saw a piton hammered into the wall. Thick cabling connected it to the harness Chromia had worn the whole trip.

The whole trip they had constantly warned him not to get ahead of them, he reminded himself.

Intellectually, he knew very well that the only building still receiving any sort of maintenance was his own tower. Every other building on Cybertron, ipso facto, was sliding into disrepair. The whole planet was, then, a temple to entropy, an ever-changing obstacle course of disaster. Venting, he froze in Chromia’s arms and listened to the floor creak and shift beneath the rest of the team’s weight.

To be fair, he had not expected the wall to open up or the floor to drop away.

Elita glared at Shockwave as he counted heads. Chromia only released Shockwave when Elita came to poke him in the chest with a thin, pink finger. "I have told you, again and again, it's fraggin' dangerous out here. The last couple of hundred years, the creeping death has been accelerating. I told you that when I came to negotiate with you! You're just lucky we don't mind being your personal heroes."

Antennae flicking, Shockwave straightened and brushed himself off. "You are mistaken. You are not heroes. But I thank you for keeping me functional nonetheless."

"We could have let you fall," Chromia ground out. "It's looking temptin', so you know."

"You would not do that," Shockwave said, gesturing dismissively with his one hand.

"Well's Light, we wouldn't!" Elita snapped, cutting Chromia's pithy response off. "Don't tempt me, Shock."

"As the minion of an absentee god, you most certainly would not leave me to fall. Your certainty of getting into the advertised private club depends on your good behavior, does it not?" Shockwave turned his gaze from dusting himself off to focus on Elita. Aware that his disfigurement disturbed most Cybertronians, it still surprised him when Elita failed to react. His mechs had _grown_ comfortable, but Elita had always been.

At the moment, Elita stared him straight in his single optic, jaw dropped. The communication antennae surrounding Elita's face in a delicate crown flared with anger. Both Elita's fists clenched.

Someone off to one side coughed. Chromia cleared his intake. A snicker escaped a third. Elita's optics snapped around the team he had brought with them. Collectively, they broke down laughing as Elita sputtered in affronted dignity.


	3. Under The Wire

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Written for the Dreamwidth [tf_rare_pairing community](http://tf-rare-pairing.dreamwidth.org/) for the prompt: Elita One/Shockwave - guardian
> 
> Shockwave might not have considered all the elements of leadership.

Shockwave looked up at the pair of pedes clunking down on a dark section of the console, to his left. He followed the crossed legs up to the small mech’s hips then lifted his gaze up to watch Elita stretching tensed cables. Slumping down, Elita met his gaze with a tired grin. “Evening, Shock. It’s mealtime, you know.”

“I have not completed my coding for this algorithm --” Shockwave began.

Elita cut him off with a groan and lifted one pede to poke Shockwave’s side. “Stop. You can’t function with nothin’ in your tank. You’re as bad as Optimus. Had to remind him too, you know. Don’t give me that look. You know damned well we’re not the minions of a corrupt god.”

“I said you were the minion of an absentee god, Elita. Please do not misquote me,” Shockwave said, turning his attention away from the pretty mech. Pauses completed no work. His work would keep them all alive. And in the long night of Cybertron, silence laid thick on the planet. This tower housed, as far as he knew, the last living Cybertronians. The stockpile Elita had shared with his mechs would keep them, on careful rationing, for perhaps two centuries. That simply delayed their deaths unless he found a way to bring the space bridge close enough to the surface for them to safely fly to with the remaining seekers, yet far enough to operate the cursed thing to begin with. And before the bridge was operational, Shockwave also needed coordinates to a safe planet, the means to force the other end to manifest in a similarly ideal location in _that_ planet’s atmosphere. And they needed materials for a landing site. The manufacture of more fuel would keep them from starving after they escaped this cold, dark Pit of a world.

While Elita admitted to possessing no technical skills not related to destruction, Elita had proven to be a most persistent mech. Familiar, too, and irreverent. But Shockwave had come to admire the mech’s bravery. Only two of the six mech team Elita commanded had proven to have any skills that Shockwave could use at the tower, but Elita led the other four in search and retrieve tasks. Elita had also proven fully capable of slotting together the less specialized of his personnel into Shockwave’s ranks and commanding Shockwave’s mechs as easily as his own. That helped give Shockwave and his assistants, both old and new, peace to focus on solving their daunting problems. Shockwave held no personal hope that Elita might find a clue to another hidden hoard, as Prowl had had for the loyalists before the last ships had fled. His own calculations frightened him.

And in this moment, as others like it before, Elita still showed him no fear or disgust. Only tired exasperation as the mech’s pede prodded his side a third time, hard enough to make Shockwave hiss. “Shock, _eat_ something. Your lights are dim. I know you need fuel. Come on. Stop working for a few minutes and treat yourself like the real mech you are, okay? Eat! Rest!”

“”You are not my master --”

“Stop right there,” Elita snarled, jerking out of his casual pose. “You’re damn right I’m not your master. I’m your _partner_ , and I need you healthy. _Healthy_ mechs work better and faster. You can’t do your best looking like a rusted Empty from the wrong side of town. _We_ are the last protectors of our people here, and as a protector, I’m telling you, a person, you need a fraggin’ break. You acted like a protector when you patched me up after Chromia dragged my aft back here from Iacon. That’s part of what leaders are, you know.”

“I do not…” Shockwave trailed off and turned to face his console without seeing it. Shockwave had been left in command. Protecting his people had been among his tasks. He had known that. In another life, he had been punished for following that tenet. And yet. “I will make no mistakes, Elita.”

“You don’t have to suffer for your work, you bent tailpipe. Please. Come eat, then recharge on a damned bed,” Elita said, rubbing the side of his face. “Optimus kept trying to punish himself, too. It’s fragging annoying, Shock.”

“My designation is Shockwave.”

“You think I forgot? Get up.” Another prod, and then Elita climbed to a stand. “Up. You need to see something that not numbers.”

A most persistent mech, indeed, Shockwave thought, but he allowed the pink mech, perhaps two thirds his size, to bully him up to his pedes and drive him from his lab. Sometimes, although Shockwave would never admit it, he enjoyed Elita’s concern, however self-interested it was. And, perhaps, he needed fuel and warmth and rest as much as other mechs.


	4. Beats & Measures

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fits in before Terms Of Living. Written for Metalloprotease, for the tumblr prompt: Blaster/Bluestreak, author's choice
> 
> Bluestreak got tired of guns and cold and quiet.

Bluestreak had expected to have his audial circuits blown out, the first time. Blaster believed in feeling the beat as much as hearing it, and Bluestreak had maybe even counted on the volume to drown out his thoughts. Blaster's flattered surprise had been so sweet, making it even more rewarding to flirt his way into the older mech's bed. Sometimes, the big stupid mechs hauling bigger guns than his around assumed Bluestreak wanted to take them for a ride. But those lugs had nothing in their heads. No thoughts to be voiced, opinions to be discussed, or memories to be shared. They had silence in their quarters. The same blank silence he got from Prowl, these days, and he didn't want that. Bluestreak wanted no more silence at all. Anywhere. Or at least not around him.

His audials had been assaulted that first night, not by Blaster's music, but by Eject's piercing scream. Ramhorn's bellow hit him like a wall before the symbiote himself did. Blaster waded into his suite, leaving him to deal with Ramhorn. Eject's scream took a turn into foul language, and a distinctly odd, muffled chuffing sound followed. Ramhorn yelped in surprise when Bluestreak grabbed the big horn and swung him around. Using Ramhorn's stocky build and the death grip he had on the symbiote's horn, Bluestreak got back to his pedes and broke out laughing. Inside, the so-staid Steeljaw had Eject by the ankle, playing keep-away with Blaster. In the corner, Rewind giggled his head. Bluestreak dragged Ramhorn back into Blaster's suite, then he helped Blaster corner Steeljaw. He let the host pry one symbiote from the other's mouth, laughing as hard as Rewind.

Blaster grinned up at him, apologetic, while fixing the marks on Eject's leg. If Bluestreak's imagination had pictured high grade, sweet music, and smooth words for his first romantic encounter, he would have been disappointed. He sat on the floor beside Blaster, running a hand down Ramhorn's back to apologize, and thought instead that it felt perfect. After the bedroom door shut, the host played that sweet music but snickered at himself too much for smooth words. Bluestreak passed on the high grade to roll Blaster onto his bed. He knew Blaster would never give him silence.

He took Blaster for the ride, listening to every hitched breath. Every gasp filed into memory like the antidote it was. Bluestreak didn't care that they had played first with the symbiotes. The giggles and roars welcomed him as the big guns and frozen attitudes of others had not. The warmth of Blaster's personality invited him inside their family. And so did his symbiotes. Bluestreak could never regret having this first. It stirred his spark while the world crumbled around them and fell into the same ruin of Praxus. Bluestreak knew nothing about romance, but he knew he wanted this. And he would never let it go.


	5. Terms Of Living

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fits in sometimes between Light A Candle and Heliopause. Written for the Dreamwidth [tf_rare_pairing community](http://tf-rare-pairing.dreamwidth.org/) for the prompt: Blaster/Bluestreak: sound effects
> 
> Player or played? Either way, Blaster's happy.

"Nuh uh, don't move. We gotta make this fast, don't we? After all, anyone could walk by this lonely stretch of hallway." The hand on his back pressed harder, flattening him further against the wall. The other hand, gentle but insistent, made a study of the angle of his hip. Firm touches moved forward to circle the edges of his interface array. When his lover's hand cupped over Blaster's valve, the host opened up eagerly, moaning. "Wet already? You're so good for me, Blaster. Just stay still. Let me make this good for you..."

When mechs side eyed him for taking up with the very young Bluestreak, Blaster just grinned at them. No regrets and no concerns bothered him. Bluestreak looked at them, too, if they bothered to look, full of hunger and want. Blaster expected he would reach for them soon. Bluestreak had matured in a war camp, after all. The young mech knew exactly what he wanted. Bluestreak purred in his audials with each gasp he wrung from Blaster. He rubbed his fingers over the host's valve, slicking them between the folds. Stroking inward, Bluestreak pressed deeper until the heel of his palm brushed against Blaster's anterior node. Blaster moaned, rocking his hips into the touch, and Bluestreak leaned forward. Suckling at the join of throat and shoulder, Bluestreak purred over his plating. "That's it, make noise for me. I love to hear you."

Folks _thought_ the arrangement came at Blaster's request. With Bluestreak pressing two fingers up inside him, Blaster dropped his head back and let Bluestreak's hold keep him from falling. He rode Bluestreak's curling, teasing fingers hard, chasing after his overload. He gasped and pleaded, and Bluestreak's palm rubbed hard into his node. Bluestreak had learned to play his body like Blaster played music, and the young mech adored each increasingly needy sound.

"You like this, I know. That one spot right there. Just a light touch, I remember, and you--ah! Oh, that's beautiful, Blaster, come on. Steady. This way. Rock with my hand, that's it." Cycling his optics off, Blaster felt every cable tensing. He let the pleasure spiraling through his body out with each shuddered breath. Bluestreak's fingers stroked up inside him like a promise from Well itself. Blaster opened and closed his hands against the walls, scraping, and Bluestreak's whispering voice urged him on. Pushed him over the edge and out into free fall.

Bluestreak's low, happy laugh wove together, in Blaster's mind, with his own shout of pleasure. Feeling overload sweep through him, all heat and desire and love, Blaster savored it. He never remembered everything he babbled in his climax, and Bluestreak, hands tightening on him, pressing _in_ inside him, drew it out. After, Bluestreak cradled him, systems purring and content just to listen, as Blaster gasped with the effort to cool down. When those mechs looked at him, he remembered Bluestreak coming to _him_ , to listen to all the sounds of life and not the echoes of death. Whether that meant the symbiotes at play, the music now gone silent from the world outside, or Blaster's pleasure mattered little Bluestreak.

So Blaster grinned at them, and he remembered joy.


	6. Devil's Deal

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Occurs somewhen in the Gravity universe before they left Cybertron. Written for Radio-Cybertron, tumblr prompt: do you trust me?
> 
> Sideswipe _has_ made worse mistakes.

"Hey there, Si!"

The damned scrub brush jumped out of his hand, hit the wall, and clattered across the floor. It thunked to a stop against a white pede. Recovering his composure too late, Sideswipe chuckled, but it trailed off as his discomfort grew. Jazz's grin broadened, and Sideswipe wanted to hide. "Sorry, Jazz, didn't see you there, mech."

"I know ya didn't," Jazz murmured. Like Prime, Jazz's smooth voice ran metaphorical fingers through Sideswipe's insides, stirring thoughts best not associated with Jazz. Still grinning, Jazz bent to pick up the brush. "I just wanna have a chat. Quiet like, just us."

Sideswipe froze. He felt Sunstreaker notice, and he reached back for his brother. Trading visuals, he saw Bluestreak and Mirage, laughing at Trailbreaker's joke. Wary, Sideswipe put his back to a wall. He knew very well how fast Jazz moved. "Uh. Okay. Just a talk?"

"I didn't know better, I'd think you didn't trust me. We've been working together how long now, mech?" Jazz sauntered forward, holding the brush out. His steps made no noise on the glossy polymer tiles of the wash room. Sideswipe wished the mech would raise that visor. It made Jazz colder than any wicked gleam in a mech's optics.

"Since I signed up for this circus," Sideswipe replied. "But sometimes you get a little off color."

"Aw, now. That's not nice." Jazz stopped too close, and he held the brush out, still grinning. Sideswipe looked down at it, then up to Jazz's visor, and took the brush with a sinking feeling. Jazz's laugh felt like a touch, and he said, "I'm a friendly mech."

Sideswipe cycled his optics, and his processor helpfully replayed image after image of Jazz slitting fuel lines, shooting mechs in the back of the head, calmly wiring explosives, or manning the big cannons. Not that Sideswipe had clean hands, either. He and his brother both had a higher kill tally than Jazz, if all the bodies counted. But two killers alone in a room for a 'chat' made for trouble. "Never said you aren't, Jazz. What'd you want to talk about?"

"You, me, an' a bed." Already in Sideswipe's personal space, Jazz reached out and rested a hand on Sideswipe's forearm.

" _What_? Wait a minute--" Sideswipe put the scrub brush on the shelf before he dropped it, pushing Sunstreaker's frightened worry back across their entangled bond. Of all mechs, Jazz _wouldn't_. Jazz _knew_. And Jazz had been like them.

"You like to frag. I'd like a frag. No strings, mech." Jazz ran his hand up Sideswipe's arm until it rested over the sensitive shoulder join. Jazz's thumb stroked over the seam. His voice dropped to a soft murmur, in tandem with the touch, and Sideswipe's insides went funny again. "Ain't it hard puttin' a front up every time? Pretendin' it's all good in your head when it's never gonna be?"

"I'd ask if Ratchet's screwing with me head, but this is too weird." Sideswipe stared down at Jazz. "You have frag buddies."

"Sure. They don't see me, mech. Not like some of ya do. It's nice of you lot not t' tell 'em, but sometimes I get tired an' don't wanna play games." Jazz chuckled and leaned in closer. "An' ya can' tell me that I ain' temptin'."

"And how do I know you won't kill me while I'm out?"

"'Cause I trust you, mech. You an' your brother. Do you trust me?"

Jazz laid his other hand on Sideswipe's chest, moving it in a lazy circle, and that rich voice wedged the suggestion hard in Sideswipe's brain. He trusted Jazz to do what had to be done. He trusted Jazz hated the world that had made them. And, coming down to it, he had been trusting Jazz not to kill them all since day one. Sideswipe shoved his brother across their half sparks. Sunstreaker hadn't listened to his objections; he didn't have to listen to Sunstreaker's. Raising a hand to rest on Jazz's back, Sideswipe pulled the mech forward and muttered, "Got to be one of your clumsiest pick ups."

"Got me what I wanted, yeah? Didn't matter if it was clumsy. Now about that bed..." Jazz pulled Sideswipe down, lips parting.


	7. Play The Hand

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Holiday gift for Chaoswolf12, who wanted to see something from Prowl's view on Sunstreaker.
> 
> There are games and then there are _games_ , but Prowl always plays to win.

Prowl could never thank Sunstreaker enough for his patience.

Incapable of doing less than his best at the games to which he was addicted, Prowl knew precisely how frustrating he was to engage. And he could not even hold a proper sociable conversation to make it less than a competition. And yet, Sunstreaker returned to the board or hand or table, time after time to be beaten by a glitched mech.

“Hey, Prowl? You’re gonna fry a circuit, and I ain’t explainin’ it to Ratchet.”

Prowl turned his attention from the game board to his opponent. Sunstreaker frowned back at him. The expression made Sunstreaker’s face cruel. Beautiful still, but cold, until it faded into that patient understanding Prowl desperately needed

“Good. You’re still with me. Been thinking too hard over there for a stupid game. What’s going on?”

Prowl considered his friend in silence for a time before focusing on the ancient, fragile pieces of the quadrant board between them. He moved his prime piece while considering what to say. Sunstreaker's pride was so very prickly. It made talking to him was a far more entertaining, and rewarding, challenge than anyone else. "I missed your company, during this latest move of our base. But I am glad that Ultra Magnus' team found so many raw materials during his excursion."

"Yeah, well. Jazz knows what he's doing. And Magnus is too much his builders' kid to screw up," Sunstreaker snorted and bent to study the board. Sunstreaker understandably took much longer to make his choices. The effort pleased Prowl in a most inexplicable way.

"That is true. He is very much like them. Did the trip go well? Overall, I mean? I know that you do not care for his more stringent attitudes."

If Prowl could not laugh out loud, Sunstreaker glared at his flicking auxiliary panels knowing precisely what that movement meant. "He's worse than you for rules and regulations, damnit. And I'm not part of your fraggin' army. He _knows_ that and keeps trying to order me around. And _you_ \-- we had an arrangement!"

"I needed you to go with his group while Sideswipe went with the Prime's. You tolerate Ultra Magnus better. I do appreciate your patience, Sunstreaker."

"I'm not patient. Fragger. You can call me Sun, you know. We’ve been over that. Like a hundred years ago, now. And you were saying it yesterday."

Prowl watched Sunstreaker finally make his move. Panels swaying to echo his amusement again, Prowl shook his head. "Sun. You cooperate with my orders and... And my...needs."

"Gonna blow a circuit, you keep getting upset like that," Sunstreaker murmured, looking away and hunching his shoulders. "We have an arrangement. When you don't fragging send me off and let your damned officers boss me around, anyway. You gonna move?"

Studying Sunstreaker a moment longer, Prowl looked back to the board. Sunstreaker might deny having patience or kindness, but Prowl had been eagerly taking advantage of every ounce he was offered since they had met.

It had occurred to him recently, that he could take it a step further, and that thought lead him to calculate a rather dangerous plan. Sunstreaker’s presence eased the ache of his existence enough, he thought, to take the chance. Prowl even thought he might release the Prime from part of his vow. From the murky depths if his spark, Prowl knew that he would not survive a second loss, but it was already too late for fear. Now or later, they would all die.

"Prowl, are we playing or what?"

"The game is engaged, Sunstreaker," Prowl responded. He moved his second guard piece forward into a capture position against Sunstreaker's prime, taking the piece from its vulnerable left flank. "And I will win."

Prowl flicked his wings again as Sunstreaker swore vividly. And, watching his friend handle his old, delicate board and pieces to reset the game, the new desire burned hotter. Sunstreaker already accepted Prowl. He already trusted.

It only needed a careful handling of the game pieces.


	8. Like Civilized Mechs

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Occurs well before Heliopause. Written for Inkfamy on Tumblr, prompt: Jazz, Soundwave - “This little game is becoming boring, don’t you think?”
> 
>  
> 
> “Th' fav'rite pastime iv civilized man is croolty to other civilized man.” ― Finley Peter Dunne

Jazz remembered this derelict dance club full of light and sound. Mechs laughing. Singing and dancing. Image captures flashed up from his memory, overlaying the ruins all around him. Mechs long dead at a party they had believed would never end.

The war had ended the party for him before it had officially begun. Taken for his 'debts' and fit with a disruption collar, Jazz had seen the war rise up from the bottom of Cybertron's society. A whispered name crawled through the slave barracks. A promise of freedom. Of revenge. Wealth and happiness and free fuel...

The memory of desire crawled through Jazz's circuits, as he crawled through the darkness and rusting debris. Megatron had promised his followers, those that would rise up with him, everything they wanted. They needed only fight the corruption of the government. They needed to break their chains and kill their masters. They only needed to rise up.

Jazz remembered Praxus. Low spires and sprawling public gardens of carefully tended crystals. Beautiful citizens and gorgeous art--all held up by mechs enslaved in their own minds, not with collars like him. Mechs who could not rise up. So the rebels had been leveled them with the rest of the city. An example.

And Jazz, standing over the greying shell of his _owner_ , had looked up at the house slaves standing with him, mechs that had suffered as much as those at the bottom of Praxus, and Jazz had lead them to Iacon. The tall, young mech Jazz had been led to there, when they had found the encampment, had listened to Jazz's story with wide optics and the most intense pain. Regret, sorrow, and terror poured off the mech. Misery for how the world had come to _this_.

The young mech had promised Jazz the safety to _be_ , not everything he wanted for the price of revenge. The new Prime's own mechs had pulled the few survivors from Praxus. He had fueled them and treated their wounds with no price tag. Jazz put the conditions on his arrangement with Prime. As each of the mechs he had brought did--as each mech in the new forging of the Prime's loyalist army did.

But the memories of revelry and slavery lived in Jazz's mind. Wild dancers and branded chattel.

He knew Soundwave's quadruped, Ravage, had spotted him already, as he reached the backstage offices. Jazz's sensors just barely registered the fliers's tiny clicks echoing around him, in any case. His counterpart knew he was there. The symbiotes only watched, allowing Jazz to seek and find their host unhindered.

Enthroned on a lavish office chair he had covered with a mesh to protect himself from its rust and dust, Soundwave had all the components of a keyboard strewn across the desk in front of him. He did not look up as Jazz approached. He watched the host attempt to clean and repair the instrument for a few minutes, and his own experienced optic suggested the instrument was past saving, whatever effort Soundwave put into this project.

"Loyalist Commander Jazz," Soundwave said after several minutes had passed.

"Rebel Commander Soundwave," Jazz replied, stretching his mouth into a broad, happy grin. "Ya said ya had a prisoner for exchange. This ain't what I'd pictured for meet'n'greet."

"The casual attitude does not entertain," Soundwave replied, voice cool. "Symbiotes report our mech not brought."

"That's assuming we have a prisoner, mech," Jazz's grin widened to show even more denta. Rocking ever so slightly forward on his pedes and looming as much as a mech of his stature could, he wasn't surprised that Soundwave ignored it. The mech had his own reputation.

"We know he lives. Megatron prepared to return foraging party."

"The whole party?" Jazz pressed, dropping the act. Thanks to Ratchet's unexplained knowledge of how Soundwave's ability worked, and Wheeljack and Perceptor's efforts, Jazz knew the mech couldn't read him. Paranoid as any former slave about having anything installed, Jazz had still allowed it. Just as his mechs and all the officers had. It had evened out the war, allowing the loyalists to grind the rebels to a halt. But he and Soundwave had danced, metaphorically speaking, before. They had seen one another kill. "But you guys killed one of ours, after ya captured them."

Soundwave looked up from the instrument. Jazz allowed his sharp, toothy grin to show again. Soundwave would probably tear their base apart for a leak now, never realizing the prisoners had been the leak, for this. Because Sunstreaker spent so much time with Prowl, and for their own unique abilities, the twins had been fitted with Wheeljack's 'joy buzzer', like the officers. Sideswipe had kept seething at his equally angry brother across the distance. Bumblebee, with Sunstreaker, currently lead the rescue mission. Jazz leaned on the desk. "Prisoners are supposed to be safe, Soundwave. If we can't kill each other in a civilized fashion..."

"Attitude hinders discussion. Surviving party members will be returned in exchange for our mech."

"Uh huh. I know you didn't bring our party here, either. So how about we arrange to meet in a nice, open area, huh?" Jazz laughed. "No wrecked dance clubs where I gotta check for traps. No sniping points outside yer read distance. Then we'll trade."

"Authorized?"

"As much as _you_." If the rescue mission was successful, Prime would order them to release the seeker, anyway. While _their_ capture was an officer, Prime had also ordered Jazz not to hurt him while they had him. If Jazz hadn't respected their glorious leader...

"Then we agree. The High Bridge outside of Iacon? Midday?"

"That'll do, mech. We'll meet ya there, with yer pretty blue flier. And we'll get our livin' mechs back." Jazz leaned down more, bringing his visor level with Soundwave's. "I'm tired of playing these games, Soundwave. The Praxian ya killed was one of _mine_. Not some example for yer cause. Ya keep that in mind every time ya send one of _yers_ out."

Soundwave watched Jazz, visor and mask hiding his expression. But Jazz knew his warning had gotten through. They were too few, all of them, but Jazz would kill for his own mechs, Prime's mandates or not. Jazz turned, sensor suit cranked, and walked out as he had come, through the ghosts and decay.


	9. Tidal Lock

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fluff-y-ish. Written for the emotion contrast challenge. Many thanks to both dragonofdispair and 12drakon for helping me clean this up. Occurs somewhere near the beginning of Heliopause.
> 
> Prowl had always wanted to burn.

In an age long lost, at the very beginning of Prowl’s life, Cybertron had skated slowly past the edge of a nameless golden star’s influence. He remembered it burning brightly in the dark sky when the nimbus of light from Cybertron’s many city-states washed out more distant stars. Prowl had hardcoded the images into his memory cortex, each tagged with a longing for warmth.

With the limited resources of their dying world, Prowl had, like everyone else, shifted the spectrum of the small lantern in his quarters to conserve their limited fuel. In doing so, he had discovered something beautiful. The soft, ruddy glow swept over Sunstreaker’s body. It burnished plating left uncared for as their situation deteriorated, and threw gentle shadows that hid the faint weld scars Sunstreaker could no longer buff out. The young mech sprawled at his ease, deep in recharge, across the faded, tattered luxury of the Praxian’s bed. Familiar and comfortable with the sounds of Prowl’s life, Sunstreaker relaxed as he did with no one else. Sunstreaker used his anger to cover the spark-deep fear he lived with, but like this, it faded from his expression.

Sometimes, Prowl saw this face when the mech woke. Curled up, half wrapped around his brother, the mech’s anxiety eased. Sunstreaker smiled then, and Prowl felt a wobble run from his spark out to the tips of his wings and down to his pedes. And he remembered a bright, warm star burning up the darkness, oh so far away. More rarely, Prowl himself earned that shy, joyful grin, and through the hard limits of the AI, the only sign he could return was the quiver of his wings.

In work or play, Sunstreaker left an understandable apprehension in his wake. While he no longer had the Kaonite fangs (and Prowl only presumed the one-time slave had been created with them), Sunstreaker’s most frequent smile held no pleasant joy. Bared threat faced those unlucky enough to earn that expression. Wings flicking with his own, private amusement, Prowl had watched even Ultra Magnus hastily step aside at that smile. And then the huge mech had left Sunstreaker’s smile to Prowl.

Even Sunstreaker’s few other friends feared his brutal temper, in a way Prowl did not. The masses outright avoided the warrior. Prowl remembered the expression of open terror Sunstreaker had worn the night they had met. Staring down at the mech seated on the floor beside his brother, elbows awkwardly braced on his knees, his face a mask of anguish, Prowl had first felt that little wobble. Like a stab of his own loss, Sunstreaker’s desolation had touched Prowl’s. He saw the terror still living in the mech now.

The Praxian had been intimate with isolation from his own creation.

Many times over those few days between the fall of Praxus and the sacking of Iacon, Prowl had tried. Drowning in his grief, Prowl had tried to reach out around the AI. To share with others. To mourn and heal with them. In the aftermath of both cities’ destruction, so many had seemed to reach back, just as eager. Then every one had pulled back as if offended. One by one each outstretched hand closed, and he had been left in the dark, lonelier than before.

Sunstreaker’s bluntness had startled him, defying Prowl’s behavioral predictions, so he had not, at first, noticed the one hand to reach for him of the other’s own accord. When Sunstreaker had spoken to _Prowl_ around the AI, spitting inelegant wisdom, Prowl had been burned, like a ship caught in a solar flare. The warrior himself had never seen the phenomena, but Prowl had. Once, that long ago star shining in the distance over Cybertron had captured his imagination. Once, he had wished for the freedom to dive into it headfirst. Now, he dared to lace his cool fingers between Sunstreaker’s warm ones as the recharging mech snuggled further into Prowl’s bed.

The rest might fear Sunstreaker’s fire, but Prowl longed to be burned.


	10. Menace

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fits in after Caught in the Afterglow Written for the Dreamwidth [tf_rare_pairing community](http://tf-rare-pairing.dreamwidth.org/) for the prompt: Jazz/any Decepticon - the brats your's. take care of it.
> 
> Warnings/Content Advisory: immobilization, death threats, brain hacking, implied rape
> 
> Jazz ain't happy.

"Aigh', m'mech," the mech sitting on his chest plate said as Onslaught came around. The fog of unconsciousness cleared. He had been injured. An explosion. Because of a battle. A human power plant. After the plant's explosion, waking to the sight of rubble and sky didn't surprise Onslaught. Not even the loyalist's physical presence surprised him. The loyalists always won now.

But Onslaught could also see one hand reaching toward his head. The mech's wide, happy grin melted into a deep laugh as Onslaught tried to move and failed. Panic threatened. The mech's datacoding presence wove through Onslaught's processor. The mech had plugged into him. System after system had been locked; motor control, vocalizer, comm system, _spark containment protocols_.

Onslaught's spark chamber was _open_. The black and white tapped a finger from his free hand on the crystal containment shell of Onslaught's spark. "Do I got yer attention?"

 **Yes,** Onslaught thought, because this mech had left only his senses and his thoughts under his control. Onslaught remembered this; he remembered his death. The only black and white loyalist officer that Onslaught knew of was that drone tactician. An enforcer build. Praxian. This mech...

"If you guys knew me so well, I'd be bad at m' job. So, here's th' thing, Onslaught. We got a problem, you an' me."

**I did nothing--**

"I know Swindle's yers, mech. So y' not controllin' him's th' issue here. I don' usually care wha' ya fraggers do no more, as long as y' keep it outta my business. _Swindle shouldn't've sold that slag t' anyone!_ " the mech hissed. Then he vented harshly. After a pause, he smiled in the friendliest way. "Now I gotta deal with th' disaster that's caused me, but _you_ gotta deal with _yours_. 'Cause if Megatron finds out, he's gonna rip what passes for yer face off an' feed it through y' tailpipe. Got me?"

 **No,** Onslaught thought desperately. The crunch from the 'loyalty programming' compounded his confusion and fear. If he could just _move_. **I don't understand.**

"That fraggin' brat found a stash of somethin' nasty that shoulda died with Kaon. An' Megatron's been done with i' before, I'm told by a trustworthy source. Your owner finds out _your_ piece a slag black market sales guy was th' one passed it off, he will take ya apart."

**You expect me to believe you?**

The mech leaned down, getting in Onslaught's face. All Onslaught could focus on was the mech's beautiful smile beneath his visor. The mech traced the outline of Onslaught's spark chamber with one finger. "I'm givin' ya a warnin' 'cause Prime's still wan'in t' honor that deal with ol' buckethead about us not killin' each other anymore. The numbers game. An' ya believe I ain' happy t' save yer afts, righ'? I wan'ed t' kill ya."

 **Yes,** Onslaught managed.

"Good. You'll be _lucky_ if ol' Megatron decides t' kill ya, y'know. I got odds says he rips yer sparks out an' puts 'em back in th' black box."

A fine tremor rolled up Onslaught's body.

"Y' get me now, huh? Good. _Take care of it, Onslaught_. Or I'll see that Megatron does." The mech patted his cheek, in the most dismissive manner. "There will be no more trouble from yer mech. Will there?"

**No. I will see it destroyed. I will make sure his sources are destroyed.**

"Good, mech. Now, let's see..,"

Onslaught's panic swallowed him whole as the monster-mech took his senses from him one by one. Then his processor went dark with a silent wail.


End file.
